


roundtable rival

by greymahariel (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Dancing, Flirting, Fun, Intrigue, Kissing, M/M, Masks, Nothing Going As Planned, Panic Attacks, The Inquisition Game, The Iron Bull's Game, The Orlesian Game, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/greymahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Orlesian Winter Ball of 9:41 Dragon is a wild ride, from start to finish. Grand Duchess Florianne is right about one thing; people will certainly be talking about it for years to come, if not precisely how she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antivian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antivian/gifts).



> I just really think you should've been able to rescue Cullen from his "admirers," especially after Cole tells you shit without context. Like usual. Shoooould be 2/3 chapters, 4 maximum because it's a bit of a read and nice to take in breaks.
> 
> Title is from a song called [Roundtable Rival](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvipPYFebWc) by Lindsey Stirling.

“At this point, the headache I’m developing is preferable to the company.”

He catches Lavellan’s grimace and significant side-eye to the man by Cullen’s side. The Commander keeps subtly stepping just beyond forward advances. Of course, that pushes him into the group of well dressed, low-neck bodice women who flick their fans at him with lascivious smiles and Maker, their _hands_.

All over him…

He suppresses a shudder Lavellan tacitly avoids noticing.

“Let’s just please get this over with,” he murmurs under his breath.

Fully aware Lavellan might tilt his head and look conflicted, but eventually, reluctantly, nod. But the others?

Cullen draws in and releases a breath through his nose. It was probably a good idea Leliana and Cassandra made him leave his sword back at Skyhold.  
-  
Lavellan closes the ballroom door behind him, twisting his bottom lip against his teeth. Can’t stop but sparing a guilty thought, thinking of the Commander’s pinched brown eyes and crossed arms, lightly tapping fingers against his waist slowly bunching up and release back into rhythm.

But unless Corypheus chokes on a chicken bone during dinner...Do darkspawn even need sustenance that way anymore? It’s...less than a pleasant thought.

So he should find this assassin, in light time. All right. He’s not a rogue for nothing.

Lavellan sweeps off, ignoring the whispers, the eyes that trail him, the “was Inquisitor Lavellan really rescued from the Fade by Andraste?”s. Keeps to the shadows, pausing every now and then for juicy little tidbits of intrigue, or boring chitchat.

The fact he feels like he’s on a counting down timer to another Conclave explosion aside, there _is_ something to playing The Game. But don’t tell Leliana he said so, please. Lavellan couldn’t keep this up long term, but fortunately, all he really has to do is show up by someone’s side, tilt his head to the side, let red shield half his face, and blink his eyes owlishly.

He’s not really sure which turns his guts more, the whole “Dalish savage” bit or playing up to this coy courtier thing sure to be eyed by people hiding razor sharp grins behind hands, fans, or besides.

Rather be eyed up by a darker gaze, who knows he’s far, _far_ from innocent…

Lavellan turns away from some probably important man, swallowing audibly. His amused murmured laughter grits Lavellan’s teeth, so he quickly (but not too fast, oh no) steps away.

He somehow makes it to his “servant’s” side, glancing up and frowning at the hat Solas is wearing. It’s..

He points.

“What is that?”

Solas, leaning against a column, slowly smiles.

“It is yours,” he says.

Lavellan scowls. Well. He did walk into that one so neatly. No doubt Solas will carefully dye it every color under the sun every time Lavellan changes battle armor, just so he can’t use Vivenne’s pearls of laughter or frowns of fashion disaster to get out of wearing it.

Then he takes a little closer look at Solas. As in, all of him.

“You certainly cut a…” Lavellan squints at him, trying to pick the right verb for maximum annoyance, “compelling figure in that suit.”

Solas glances down at his uniform, brushing imaginary dust off the collar as if to say, oh this?

“As do you, Inquisitor,” the other elf murmurs.

Is there just a slight hint of wolfish, something heavy but warm, under Solas’ ever placid smile?

No. Can’t be. They’ve just never actually ever seen each other in formal wear, is all. Lavellan’s reading into things. Solas would never…

Still, Lavellan’s aware the hair on the back of his neck doesn’t settle until he’s nearly halfway down the hall and almost running into the Iron Bull.

Chuckling; solid, and also warm, grey hands steady him about a foot away. There is already a pick up in hushed voices, but fuck. Lavellan can savor being outside pretending for one little moment.

“This is payback isn’t it,” Lavellan accuses.

Bull crosses his arms, but doesn’t even bother hiding his grin.

“Dunno what you mean, little elf.”

Lavellan narrows his eyes. 

Leliana’s light grip around his wrist, basically just three fingers, but somehow stronger than iron. He’d let her lead him into one of the very short list of dances he could (probably) manage not to embarrass himself at. The lift and swing around and all.

She’d smiled though, and it met her eyes.

Josephine’s hesitant, quick peck to his cheek in front of a squealing Yvette; her expression quickly soured, and she turned on her sister. Lavellan recognized a rant of epic proportions beginning, so he slipped away.

Solas. Just...Solas.

It makes him wonder, and equally dread, whatever Bull means to do with the end of the night…

“Care for a dance?”

He asks, hoping to head it off before it gets too far along.

Bull chuckles. “Can you imagine the look on their faces? And the _advisors_ , trying to explain that we were...Wait. You’re serious, aren’t you? Yes, absolutely. After the assassin’s dead, we’ll show these folks real. Dancing.”

He says it with a little, meaningful movement, just brushing up against Lavellan’s side for seconds. Leaves behind traces of heat all along Lavellan’s body, that make him flush, and cause the whispering to almost approach real speech. Shocking.

“I really hope you all thought about Cole getting into this,” Lavellan mutters, “because we are _not_ going down that road again. Krem still won’t look him in the eye anymore. And it’s all your fault.”

“Ah, yeah,” Bull says, tilting his head up at the ceiling. Like he’s remembering.

Poor Krem.

But still, advisors. Cullen’s the only one not in on it, apparently, and for once the thought doesn’t disappoint Lavellan. There’s no real guarantee his crowd of, Lavellan can only think to call them ‘groupies’ would peel off anyway.

Maybe they’d corner Cullen _and_ Lavellan.

Well, at least they’d be suffering in misery together…

Somewhere in the midst of his thoughts, he’d turned his head in the general direction of the ballroom. He blinks when a finger lightly prods it turn back to a much more relaxed, indulgent smile.

Then Bull lets go and goes back to the crossed arms position.

“You should go dance with him, little elf.”

Lavellan startles, confused. What? Who?

“You know who.”

Maybe he should be somewhat concerned it appears Bull can read his mind, but all he feels is, curiously, a little tired and a little ‘oh’.

Bull snorts.

“You still don’t get it, do you?”

And Lavellan tilts his head.

“You. Are. _Mine_ ,” Bull says softly. “And I, as you might imagine, have a habit of not letting go of things, people, I want. Like these spiced nuts. Really should have the cooks invest in them, back Skyhold. You checked up on Cole yet?”

Lavellan makes a note of both, letting muscle memory steer him away before he makes a complete fool of himself and then lets the assassin snatch Celine’s head because at least it would distract everyone from...that particular disaster.  
-  
He can’t find Cole anywhere. That’s more than mildly anxiety rising. And Lavellan’s been everywhere. They didn’t even introduce him, did they?

He’s just about to flag down Leliana and face the music when he sees a flash of white leading up to the Grand Library. It’s not Cole, and Lavellan doesn’t spare a thought how he knew that just from the color (tinted light blonde, not totally white; and that was white) but that has to be the jester he saw outside not a few hours ago.

In other words, pursuit takes priority.

The thing slips out of his grasp once again, after leading him through a merry chase of the upstairs immediately above the ballroom. Surely, the various guests, Celine, Gaspard, and friends hear their thundering clambering along.

Clambering because it’s hard, even for a jester, to run and look back, and fight at the same time. Lavellan needs to look back to make sure no other assholes flank his ass and decide it’s a good time for spitting elf.

But what he’s saying, the disapproval, the scoffing hidden behind fake coughs, and the lovely disdain from that one guy in the half-white and half-blue mask will probably await his arrival back to the ballroom.

Which, as a mysterious bell chimes overhead, should be right now.

Oh well. He’ll be fashionably late. Even better.

Except…

“Cole?”

Lavellan comes to a screeching halt right outside the library door. Well, if you call stumbling into a wall and ramming the corner of a wooden table into his side a halt. He bites back the long, colorful, and inventive string of words for where Orlesians can collectively stuff themselves, and each other, because if Cole catches onto it there is _no way_ Dorian or the Iron Bull will ever let him live it down.

He doesn’t even want to think about Sera.

“Cullen is afraid,” Cole greets him with, blinking innocently. “They’re hunting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.”

Well. Fuck being hit by the sharp edge of a table.

Lavellan works his mouth a bit, too aware of the sudden silence in the air, Cole’s expectant gaze on him like spitting out these intimate secrets is just a thing he does. Well. It kind of is.

Not the point.

“Then I should go rescue him,” Lavellan finally says, “and...oh for fuck’s sake!”

The bell chimes again, seeming to taunt him. You’re in for it now.

He races out of the library, trusting Cole will do...whatever Cole things he does when not immediately having to stab something in the back. There’s a paradox, right there.

Comes skidding back to Cole’s placid, smiling face.

“Those new words I just taught you? Never, ah, repeat them. To Varric. Or Cassandra, for that matter. Or, hell, anyone. Shit, I....I should go.”

“Goodbye,” says Cole.  
-  
Where. Is. He?

Cullen hides his hands behind his back so no one sees his nails biting into the palm of his hands. He’s never really had a thing for hitting random people because they pissed him off, but he’s beginning to see why Hawke seemed so fond of it before she disappeared.

“Commander,” begins the same man who has been glued to his side for the entire night.

Cullen can't really be blamed for rising up after spotting a familiar shock of red, and latching onto Lavellan’s arm like a lifesaver. Which he will be, if they save Celine from being assassinated tonight.

“Did you,” he cuts off abruptly, takes a deep breath, “have you found anything? At all?”

“Yes,” Lavellan says, “But not here -”

“Oh Josie, look! Inquisitor Lavellan is going to ask Commander Cullen to dance! Isn’t that delightful?”

Yvette. Cullen grits his teeth. Never has he ever wished to sink into a Fade rift right at that moment, even through the roughest nights of lyrium withdrawal.

Josie shoots him an apologetic look, then, storm clouds beginning to form in her brown eyes, starts on Yvette. Who squeaks and shuffles back, Josie advancing with poise that usually makes her look graceful, and not like a hungry dragon upon its prey. Usually.

“That’s actually a great idea.”

Cullen snaps his head back to Lavellan, sure he must have misheard. Is there some conspiracy over his head that his life must constantly be a bag of nug shit? He didn’t even get a damn head’s up.

But then Lavellan’s taken his hand, and his palm feels slick against his. Cullen doesn’t miss the slightly panicked look that’s taken to the elf’s eyes, or how his breath is starting to come in a bit too quickly.

Cullen doesn’t blame him, but Inquisitor Lavellan cannot have a panic attack in the Winter Palace’s Vestibule, on the night Celine is most likely scheduled to die. Not that Cullen particularly cares about her, right now.

Still, there is a collective gasp when Cullen kneels and brings Lavellan’s hand to his mouth, softly kissing the back of it. The elf’s skin tastes like elfroot, with a certain undercurrent of electricity that sears at his lips.

Intriguing.

“Lord Inquisitor Lavellan,” he says, ignoring Leliana’s widened eyes. They can’t say he isn’t inventive in a crisis. “May I have this dance?”

It only leaves Lavellan to accept, but the elf instead drops into a low, flourishing bow as Cullen rises. Which, _of course_ , he does perfectly, despite the numerous “failed” attempts they’d made attempting to learn how to dance for this ball in the first place.

He’d needed a taller, wider partner than either Leliana or Josephine, for reasons that are still not especially clear to Cullen, who expects they might have just played him. 

Cullen did know how to lead, at least.

Still. The nerve.

Lavellan’s smile when he looks up at him is slanted, like the shit eating grin of always, though it’s strained.

“Of course, Ser Rutherford.”

The one place worse than having a panic attack in the Vestibule is the ballroom itself. Especially through a formal, intricate dance Lavellan has really only tentatively mastered because he’s tenacious and tends to drive himself to physical illness when failing at something important until he gets it right.

So, somehow they have to make it through this sure to be awkward dance, get Lavellan to not panic on the dance room floor in front of basically everyone who is anyone in Orlais at the moment, figure out whatever it is Lavellan was cut off from informing him, and then finding, potentially killing, the assassin who is probably laughing at them all right now somewhere secure.

Cullen exhales a breath. Is that all?

“Let me lead,” he tells Lavellan, voice shielded by the ballroom doors opening. “Just like at Skyhold. Try to match your breathing to the rhythm, yes?”

Lavellan looks at him side-ways, something strangled about the set of his mouth, but just nods his head.

Oh, yes, they allow Cullen to be the one to deal with the panic, as if it isn’t rising some sympathetic version in his own head. Because, clearly, he’s the best candidate to do this.

That was a joke. Cullen can’t do this. Can barely keep his own damn head screwed on some days, and then there are days he really doesn’t feel like getting out of bed at all.

But he’s going to have to, anyway. _They are_. A lot of lives depend on what occurs in the next ten minutes.

He snorts, shaking his head inelegantly.

The Game. No wonder Gaspard hates it so.

The idea that leading Lavellan, _by the hand_ , onto the dance floor in the midst of a panic attack is Cullen’s seriously considered preferable option, among options available of which admittedly there are few, to certain destruction and the end of the world makes him hate it a little bit too.


	2. chapter two

Was it always so bright on the open floor? Or had the heavens themselves also arrived to openly mock them? Above their heads, faint snatches of conversation here and there bore names. Little underhanded accusations.

Lavellan happened to glance up at one in particular - possibly involving the Dales and the Dalish - so Cullen dropped his hand, stepped to the side, and held out the same arm in the indication Lavellan should link his with him.

“Hey,” Cullen says, firmly but gently, “focus on me. Nothing else exists.”

Distracted yellow eyes focused on his face, then his arm, followed by the taking thereof.

“Some might consider that speaking highly of yourself, Commander.”

To anyone who knows him, there are clearly off notes in Lavellan’s tone. The way he almost self-consciously attempts to tuck himself behind Cullen, probably because the accusations have become significantly more...well. But he stops before the action is obvious, taking in a sharp breath.

“Well, clearly the company should keep me humble.”

A little, surprised laugh, and Lavellan blinks.

The dancers align in two rows semi-equidistant apart from each other and the high rising walls to either side. Something in Lavellan relaxes at the recognition this is not, in his words, the “bloody awful curse on all that is holy” dance of the evening.

Still, and that might simply be because they are the only same-sex pair on the floor at the current time, it has put them closer to either the front or end of the lines, depending on perspective, than Cullen likes. More focus on the Herald means more whispers, which means all that positive relaxing is gone like the wind by the time the lines even start moving.

Of course.

Cullen tries changing tactics.

“Tell me something?” 

It keeps Lavellan’s attention on him, and more importantly on where they’re stepping. This dance involves a good amount of coordination and fancy footwork, which makes it obviously preferable to a rogue who relies on both in combat significantly more than a warrior.

“Oh?”

“This dance,” and they separate when appropriate, rejoining seconds later, “why exactly, was it a good idea?”

Lavellan smiles briefly, though his still stiffened posture makes Cullen grimace.

“What good is all that practice at Skyhold, if not to put to use at a real ball?”

“So you all did play me,” Cullen accuses.

“Would you have agreed otherwise?”

The Commander raises an eyebrow at him, accepting his hand to spin him in close. Close enough Lavellan is pressed flush against him for the barest few seconds, his mouth somewhat close to the elf’s ears when he dips his head.

“Perhaps.”

Lavellan blinks at him, seemingly uncertain. It’s better to keep him off balance, not focused on the panic. His attention strays less and less. Good.

“You’re joking,” he says, “and not very well. Did Cassandra steal your sense of humor?”

Cullen chuckles, and then they’re moving sideways, in full view of the multitude of people above to their right who've come out to watch the dancing. There are a significant amount of eyes on them. Lavellan swallows.

“Don’t you know,” Cullen asks him, “her sense of humor was eaten by a bear?”

Lavellan coughs delicately, pouting at him when they face each other. Cullen hasn’t seen the reports directly, but Josephine often rants, louder than she believes, on the impossibility the Hinterlands could have so many bears and still be in possession of any inhabitants of the human nature. Or that Seeker Cassandra, who shrugged when accused of it, intentionally directly attracts every bear in a three mile radius simply because she exists.

Cullen isn’t sure whether that’s a compliment or not. Hasn’t asked.

Lavellan seems calm enough, but not calm by far, that through the next series of partings and joinings, informs Cullen that everyone at this ball is bloody ridiculous.

“They’re all in on it,” he says, frowning, but remembering to smile instead at the last second. “Trying to assassinate someone, if not Celine. Gaspard hates the Council of Heralds, possibly his Uncle. Celine needs to put down his threat to her crown. Briala clearly wouldn’t mind if both ate each other’s heads off.”

It behooves Cullen to remind Lavellan that isn’t all that surprising. He’s curious though.

“Politics among the Dalish are always polite and...bloodless?”

Lavellan laughs, tilting his head to the side and in. Just so. The murmuring of the crowd above shifts.

“I wouldn’t call it politics,” he says, dryly, “but we’re few enough it doesn’t do to try killing each other when everyone else is so adept at it.”

He winces. Possibly remembering where he is.

“The Game,” Cullen reminds him.

Now they’re no longer at the front or end of the lines, but in the middle. Of course, where once a preferable position, any discussion of assassinations of particular Orlesian persons might be looked down upon by prying ears.

And any Orlesian ears, typically, are prying. Especially Leliana.

Cullen turns the object of conversation onto something less politically volatile, but not necessarily less of concern.

“So,” he says slowly, stepping back and down and pulling Lavellan in, “the Iron Bull. How did he ever manage with that jacket?”

Lavellan wears a fond smile. It appears there is at least some truth to rumors Cullen pretends to disapprove of and not listen to. Much as he detests the practice, if there are rumors circulating about the Herald, they need to be noted. Probably crushed.

He might crush all of them, is of the opinion such is preferable, but Josephine and Leliana curiously don’t share it.

“He didn’t, if you ask Krem and myself,” the elf huffs, “took us an hour to convince him that it was even a large enough size. This, is it velvet? Yeah, hated the feel of it. But...it doesn’t...look all that bad on him.”

Perhaps more truth than anyone realizes. Lavellan is very innocent, whether anyone observes it or he realizes it. That smile, the second one. The softer one. That smile says it all. No one smiles like that who doesn’t fall hard and fast, the first or third time, then gradually becomes more and more cynical.

Not that Cullen has experience.

“You are…” He hesitates to bring it up, but in truth, if he is visited by Giselle one more time or has to see that hunted, twitching look on Dorian’s face again because she believes he and the Inquisitor are involved, he is going to stab something.

Preferably, hopefully, Templar and red lyrium related. 

“Together,” Lavellan fills in, smile turning to grin. “Why, Commander. What calls for the sudden concern in my love life?”

Love life. Definitely innocent. 

“Have you seen how...large he is? I can’t help but…”

Aha, that’s not territory Cullen wants to go down, so of course it is exactly where his mind leaves him.

Lavellan arches an eyebrow. He presses his lips very tightly together, either in annoyance or to keep the laughter in. The uncontrollable, bent over, can’t breathe and is nearly crying sort.

“Ah,” Lavellan says, “I didn’t know you were so...concerned.”

Cullen coughs, hiding it in his fist during a convenient pause in the dance where having an arm that high isn’t uncalled for.

“Not even. Just. Logistics.”

Lavellan may be biting his tongue to keep from laughing, but his eyes are dancing. Cullen clears his throat, rolls his eyes, and holds his hand out for Lavellan to take.

“Please just,” Cullen says, “forget I ever said. Anything.”

“Can do. Smile, Commander.”

What? Oh, yes. Cullen has noticed he has a tendency to, and it’s not frowning damnit, resemble a block of stone when he’s not concentrating on smiling. An intimidating, block of stone.

“Varric keeps saying that,” Cullen mutters, “I don’t look..that serious, do I?”

Lavellan’s eyes are pulled away just before he’s about to answer, no doubt - so serious you’ll have to be careful it doesn’t freeze that way - and they narrow at something Cullen can’t see, given it’s behind his head.

And before Cullen can ask what, Lavellan steps closer rather than further away, like he should.

Whispers begin to grow among their audience. Somewhat among their fellow dancing pairs as well.

“Lavellan?”

The elf looks up at him and presses even closer, curling an arm over his shoulder just at the nape of his neck. Instinctively, Cullen’s arm slides around his waist, and with the other, Lavellan interlocks their free hands and leans them out.

This was certainly not in the program, even back at Skyhold. Doesn’t Lavellan know that to lead, the leader needs to know what, in fact, he’s leading?

“Just,” Lavellan murmurs, into his collarbone, “improvise. I need to tell you something, without everyone listening in.”

Cullen swallows.

“Now?”

“I could let Florianne kill the queen first, if you’d prefer.”

Cullen stumbles, almost breaking their rhythm, but reels back at the last moment and rejoins with Lavellan. This time, the elf’s fingers are certainly tugging at little sections of his hair at the nape of his neck, but Cullen is mostly sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it, the way he looks so focused on Cullen’s face. 

And so...close.

Lavellan is only a few inches shorter than himself, after all. Wonder why he never really noticed before.

“Think about it,” Lavellan says, either ignoring the red beginning to seep into Cullen’s cheeks, or hardly noticing. “Florianne pulled me away to dance earlier this evening. She implicates her brother in a plot against Celine.”

“It’s not that far-fetched,” Cullen manages.

"She's his sister. By all accounts, they're particularly close. And Florianne near hammered me over the head with it, by the standards of The Game. Suspicious. And the only one that doesn't make sense."

He and Lavellan sweep around a surprisingly open floor, given the others have separated to the sides to give them room. Some continue to dance, adopting their stances, but many simply watch them. Quite closely. Cullen thinks he picks out the scowling faces of several of his “admirers” among them, including the man who wouldn’t leave him alone.

Of course, that means they probably think he and the Inquisitor...Maker.

“Gaspard wants his right as the throne’s true ruler recognized. But he’s antagonized too many people to do so through diplomacy. He has reason to execute Celine. Brialla too. I don’t know what, exactly, happened between them, only that they were lovers -”

“As many no doubt think _we_ are…”

Lavellan blinks, glancing around.

“Ah.”

Then he turns back and grins.

“So play the role.”

Oh, Cullen must resemble a particularly ripe red tomato at this point. Someone from the sidelines, some _many_ someones, afford them the polite, refined version of catcalling.

All in the expressions. Smirks, grins full of teeth, closed eyes and smiles.

“What?!” He did not squeak, thank you. How unbecoming. Just...Lavellan expects him to, to?

Lavellan sighs, and leans into the next curve around they do, pressing up on his tip-toes just briefly to deposit a chaste kiss on Cullen’s cheek.

“You, my friend, are the book definition of a prince charming. Act like it.”

A smirk.

“Will you sweep me off my feet, oh Ser Rutherford?”

Mentally, Cullen grits his teeth, hard enough he fears he strikes bone. In reality, he almost does the same, managing to freeze a terse smile on his face. It’s the best he can do, given an order like that. And it is an order. Much as Cullen seems to be leading Lavellan in the finer arts of dancing, he’s never forgotten the Inquisitor has the final vote on almost everything.

Including, apparently, his Commander’s pride.

“Naturally,” he says, somewhat stiff, “Lord Inquisitor.”

“Full titles,” Lavellan whispers, when Cullen brings him, if possible, a mite bit closer, “do I detect venom?”

He’ll detect a lot more when they get back to Skyhold.

Lavellan startles, for a moment, nothing more, when Cullen pulls away from his hands and instead lifts him by the waist into the air. The crowd behind them gasps, then applauds when Lavellan laughs and tucks his legs up against his body until Cullen swings him around to the ground.

“I forgot you were frequently quite literal, Commander.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, the quality of his smile loosening. “You forget a lot of things about me, Elijah.”

Lavellan cocks his head, probably curious that he knew his first name, given it’s changed once or twice since he came among a more human centric milieu. Not that his elven name was necessarily all that hard to pronounce, but Lavellan seems to have grown on Elijah and adopted it.

“That almost sounds like a challenge, Cullen.”

There it is, what Cullen has been working on for the entire damn dance itself, getting Lavellan’s attention to focus and not stray. It only took a few minutes of awkward, half-improvised dancing and a low dip at the end.

It’s possible Lavellan’s hair brushes the ground, how low he’s got him, but that just makes it all the more scandalous (sweeter) when Cullen pulls him up and meets him halfway.

Wonder of wonders, Lavellan jerks, might have pulled away, had Cullen not a rather secure grasp around his waist and a less tight, but no less secure, one entangled in his hair. 

After a while, he submits to the kiss, eyes sliding shut and mouth opening to the tongue prodding it do so. 

Yes, yes, prince charming types do indeed know how to kiss, don’t they?

Cullen hadn’t actually meant to kiss Lavellan this deeply. 

To tighten the hold in his hair, nip at the side of his mouth, and then soothe away the sting. 

Demand dominance and feel Lavellan cede. 

Dig his fingers a bit into the elf’s back. Let Lavellan basically cling on, arms wrapped around Cullen’s neck first probably out of surprise, but then tightened and left.

Push inside, and taste him (elfroot, again, likely remnants of potion and something spicy that...burns seconds later), because this is the only (probably...most likely...what is he _thinking_ ) time he’s going to kiss Lavellan and Cullen can admit to being curious. If only inside his head.

The best laid plans…

He pulls back to an explosion of noise. Startles, because clearly it’d been going on for some time and Cullen hadn’t heard a whit of it. Lavellan either, who seems to have forgotten all about The Game and is breathing hard, staring up at him with wide, dilated eyes.

“Mmm, Lord Inquisitor,” Cullen says, righting Lavellan since he doesn’t seem able to do so himself, “it was indeed, a challenge. One you just lost.”

In front of the crowd, half cheering and half in disgust, as is Orlais, the raised eyebrow of Leliana, and lightly tinted cheeks of Josephine, Cullen walks away.

Lightly whistling.

“Andraste’s sweet _buttocks_.”

Oh, preferable course of action by far.


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like I was right on first guess, three chaps wraps it up all nice and neat. Thanks for reading ^^

Far enough away from the other ball guests, or so he hopes, Lavellan risks yawning and stretching his arms high above his head until he hears the satisfying crack.

To be honest, with the recent flurry of “excitement” as some would call it, no one’s probably even thinking about him. The whole “elves are invisible” unless humans suspect them of wrongdoing, and all.

Even as Inquisitor, Lavellan expects he’ll never quite break away from that perception, but right now it’s serving him. So he lets it go.

Amazing, really, how fast things went from Cullen, _Commander Cullen_ , leaving his Inquisitor gaping like a fish in front of a horde of Orlesian nobility to Florianne’s ridiculous attempt on Celine’s life.

Seriously, she meant to kill the queen of Orlais out in the open, in the middle of the most important social event of the year?

Or, apologies, her stalled before it even began, attempt at assassinating Celine.

A small smile curves up the edges of Lavellan’s mouth. Now that was truly the highlight of the evening. Confronting Florianne in front of the other guests, Cullen inquiring if he were mad a tad above proper voice level, and revealing her treachery not in battle but the slick, twisting glide of words meant to stab.

The Inquisitor, an elf, a Dalish elf, showed up Duke Gaspard, upon his own invitation at that, as a “true” master of the Orlesian Game. 

Probably a good thing they’re unaware to the reason he held his hands behind his back. Not in act, but to keep them steady. The panic in his throat, like a knot constricting and only _focus on me, nothing else exists_ , kept Lavellan from breaking down in front of everyone.

If this is what “sowing diplomatic ties and showing social courtesy” is going to be like in the future, Josephine might have to find herself another candidate for Inquisitor, at least in that capacity.

An arm slips around his shoulders, friendly, but still nearly startling Lavellan out of his skin. His head whips up to meet a very familiar, crooked smile.

And he nearly immediately scowls.

“Such venom,” Cullen says, chuckling, “Inquisitor?”

“This is the part where I ignore you exist for a period of time not exceeding, but certainly extended to as long as forever.”

The chuckling expands into full on laughter, the kind of warm, rich response Cullen’s “admirers” no doubt hoped to pry out of him all evening long. Hopefully, they’re listening in nearby. And seething.

“You do have a way with words, Inquisitor. I’ll give you that.”

He sobers, and inclines his head toward Lavellan. Such a serious, sincere expression takes the place of humor it strikes the elf speechless.

Cullen has really got to stop doing that. His face. His face needs to stop.

“Far more excitement than needed for one evening, wouldn’t you agree? Are you all right?”

For a moment it escapes Lavellan’s mind what he could possibly mean, and Cullen begins to frown at his silence.

“Oh,” Lavellan says, quickly clearing his throat at how squeaky his voice sounds, “that. Uh. Yeah. I’m good.”

Gets cuffed lightly upside the head. Cullen has yet to let go of Lavellan, and his arm is a very clear line of warmth across the elf’s neck and shoulders.

“And they say I’m a horrible liar,” Cullen says. “The truth? If you don’t mind. Just between us?”

Lavellan sighs, all of a sudden struck by a need to rub at his eyes until they burn. Tired. Just tired, hopefully.

“We did it,” he says, uncertainly, “right? Celine’s safe. Corypheus foiled, again. Ended a brutal civil war, even peacefully. Celine and Gaspard...and Briala, are all going to work together. Well. For the moment.”

But Cullen doesn’t miss his pause on Briala, as Lavellan expected, but half-hoped he would.

“I have yet to read the full report,” Cullen says, “but I’ve seen the documents you found concerning Celine and Briala. It would be a ridiculous, not to mention insensitive, question to ask if what happened bothered you. But,” and a quirked, rueful smile rises, “I can ask if you are all right, yes? Again?”

Lavellan nods, turning his head toward Celine’s high balcony. She and the others have long since left the pulpit, but he sees a ghost of her, proclaiming to work for “the good of the empire” and he shakes his head.

If you don’t live in an alienage, he supposes.

Doesn’t really like the sharp, bitter taste that rises in the back of his mouth. But Lavellan’s long past fear of nausea at Celine’s ruthlessness, and the memories that flickered like flashes in the back of his mind - smiling faces, all those he left behind, _Nana_. 

It could have been them. It _was_ them. To someone.

Lavellan shivers and Cullen pulls him closer in response, perhaps out of reflex. The Commander always seems prone to needing to see for himself if his charges, and Lavellan smiles because that’s probably exactly what the older man considers him, are safe.

And rectifying the matter if it turns out they are not. Usually by form of the sword, but Cullen is also softer than Lavellan expected, for a former Templar.

“It’s a successful night,” Lavellan says, softly, “so let’s just. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Cullen sighs, but grasps him in a comforting, if somewhat awkward one armed hug. He lets the elf go and Lavellan immediately regrets the parting, somehow colder for the loss.

“All right,” Cullen says. His face says anything but. “If you need me, I’ll be with the soldiers drawing up plans to track the rest of the assassins down. It probably won’t come to much, but the Inquisition could use more leverage on certain parts of Orlais.”

Or Leliana forced him; Lavellan can read between the lines. 

He forces a smile to see Cullen off, but it falters as soon as the Commander turns his back.

He really needs some fresh air.

Lavellan turns from the gathering crowds of people somehow still in the mood for stuffy, sneering (but politely) forms of partying.

There’s an open balcony near the gardens. Quite a few, actually, if he remembers right.

Lavellan manages to slip out of the ballroom without anyone noticing. Aside from Leliana, probably. He manages polite, if awkward, nods towards guests who actually respond positively to him as he passes.

It all bewilders him. How can someone hate someone’s heritage, yet cover that vitriol with false honey so easily?

Of course, he knows how to deceive people. To survive. Never would have made it through this ball, almost didn’t anyway, and certainly not his early life growing up without it. It’s just, doesn’t it get wearying?

Always having to lie?

He passes several balconies in a vague circle, all of a sudden simply not wanting to stand still. It’s easier for him to think, while moving, even if he’s vaguely sure he should probably stop trying to think at this point in the night.

Lavellan makes the circle twice and then comes to stop in front of one of the flung open tall doors. Not, actually, because he wants to, but because someone grabs hold of his collar and yanks him outside, hand over his mouth.

It’s fast enough Lavellan lets himself be dragged along, completely taken by surprise, and before he can nail the person holding him anywhere certain enough to give him some leverage, he’s pulled back against a familiar body. Even before that, the heady, spicy, deep musk scent only really belongs to one person.

To one particular asshole, specifically.

Who, in a perfectly casual voice, tells him, “If you scream, they’ll know something is up.”

And then lets him go.

Lavellan turns around, woodenly, craning his neck up to look the Iron Bull in the eyes. The damn horned menace has the audacity to smirk at him.

Instead of returning the favor, Lavellan leans into him and wraps his arms around his neck, the elf’s general signal to “pick me the fuck up, dammit” and is easily accommodated.

Bull lets him wrap his legs around his torso, as well as they can, anyway, supporting his back with one arm and letting the other hand venture places most certainly indecent.

“Someone,” Lavellan says, leaning in close, “forgot Leliana’s list of virtues. Specifically, cleanliness.”

“Passive aggressive brat.”

“You love it.”

Satisfied, Lavellan leans the rest of the way and meets a mouth that takes over the kiss easily enough, despite the fact the elf is technically pushing Bull into the wall behind them.

Only for a moment.

The next Lavellan finds himself panting and on his feet, cornered between stone wall and a fair good stone of qunari.

“So,” Bull says, letting it drawl out real slow, “‘bout that kiss…”

Well, yes. Cullen. That. That had seemed an, okay so a bit of a good idea, but seriously the bastard preempted him. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Make an embarrassment of himself in the middle of hundreds of people?

Bull chuckles and ruffles his hair.

“All right,” he says, “here’s what we’re going to do about it. I’m going to push you up against this wall and I guess I’m going to have to show you what a real kiss is. Instead of that dance. You in?”

He says it like it doesn’t matter if Lavellan says yes or not, he’s going to do what he wants anyway, but Lavellan has not been in this relationship this long and not learned to read between the lines.

Probably the reason neither have grown bored of the other yet.

And it’s been...what? A month now? More?

Lavellan nods.

That’s part of the game too. You want to make Elijah Lavellan moan your name? Scream? You work for it, dammit.

Bull leans in close to him, nudging his chin up with the side of his nose and nuzzling into Lavellan’s neck. Speaks against his skin, in between slow, meandering kisses across his throat.

“Gonna need to be quiet. If you’re too loud, someone’s going to connect the dots and realize you probably let the savage foreigner fuck you any way he wants. If you’re not loud enough, well. We’ll risk it.”

Lavellan almost asks what he means by “risk,” but the importance of this night, where they are, means it’s nothing they haven’t done before. And nothing that would likely embarrass the Inquisition more than the knowledge Inquisitor Lavellan lets his mercenary captain, well, fuck him any way he wants.

They probably already know anyway. And Lavellan already has to hide so many aspects of his person just because he’s an elf, that Josephine shut her mouth very quickly when she suggested to the Inquisitor he might want to leave his relationship with the Iron Bull quiet.

At least in Orlais.

Fuck Orlais.

Of course, several hours thereof he’d felt guilty enough to have snapped at her (and fearful of retribution from Leliana, he can be honest) that he may or may not have apologized in several, long winded semi-rants that accomplished nothing but Josephine hugging him too tightly and ruffling his hair.

They always do that. Lavellan does not understand why.

A sharp nip into the crook of his neck forces a strangled groan from his mouth.

“You think too much,” Bull says. “ _Focus_.”

It’s the threat of getting caught, anyway, like the savage little creature Lavellan knows they think he is, that carries the interest.

“Make me,” he says, grinning.

Bull raises an eyebrow, smile sharpening. Predatory.

“Oh? Dangerous words, little elf.”

“We live in dangerous times.”

Bull tips his chin up with the tip of a finger.

“Clearly,” he says, smoothing the edge of his thumb over Lavellan's bottom lip, “we did put you in charge, after all.”

“Low blow. Low, oh -”

Enough talking, Bull must decide, because before Lavellan even finishes speaking, arms around his waist lift him high into the air and pin him against the wall. Lavellan lightly kicks his heels back against stone, the tips of his boots poking into Bull’s stomach. He must be at least a foot or two off the ground.

It’s a heady feeling.

Lavellan grins into dark eyes slowly sizing him up, more teeth bared than polite.

“Well, waiting for a written invitation?”


End file.
